


Boxing Clever

by Fudgyokra



Series: Kinktober 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Background JayRoman & SladeDick, Bodyswap, Dom/sub Undertones, Featuring a lil bit of JayDick pining, Humor, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26541526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: After magically switching bodies with Dick, Jason has a little fun with his predecessor’s rival.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Series: Kinktober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930009
Comments: 10
Kudos: 99
Collections: Kinktober 2020





	Boxing Clever

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my fourth year of Kinktober participation, which is pretty rad! If you’re interested, here are the fills from [2017,](https://archiveofourown.org/series/863300) [2018,](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1148915) and [2019.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1498010)
> 
> This time I’m doing things a little differently because I’ll be combining the traditional Kinktober with Noncontober. Not a major change, just a way for me to have more prompts to choose from.
> 
> Happy Spooky Season, everybody!
> 
> Day 1: ~~Omorashi~~ | ~~Knifeplay~~ | Body swap

Right now, there are a number of things Jason would like to address. An elbow is digging into his ribs, and he isn’t bound to anything, so it’s reasonable to assume he and whoever Dingus here is have been carelessly knocked out and dropped somewhere unsavory.

Only, when his eyes creak open and he surveys his surroundings, he realizes he’s on the floor of his Eastern-most safe house, and there’s no splitting headache to accompany his sudden reawakening, which means no blow to the head. He would have remembered someone administering drugs to him. What gives?

Another thing that strikes him as strange—and he probably should have started with this, but he’s tallying slowly, sue him—is that he’s wearing Nightwing’s suit, from the finger stripes all the way down to the armored boots. He and Dick get along these days, sure, but not well enough to have slumber-partied their way into each other’s uniforms, so he thinks he’s dreaming for as long as it takes him to struggle first to his knees, then his feet. He realizes quickly that he’s wide awake, because the person on the ground by his boots is unquestionably _himself._

It’s said you wouldn’t recognize yourself if you ever met your exact double, but although Jason agrees his nose looks a little more crooked and the freckles across his cheeks more pronounced than he’s used to seeing in the mirror, he recognizes the patch of white in his hair and the fading, finger-shaped bruises on his jaw from when Roman had grabbed him earlier this week.

So, that probably meant…

“Dick?” he tries, nudging the toe of one shoe against his own unconscious body’s ribs. It’s super weird. He’s struck with the odd temptation to kick him, knowing damn well it would come back to bite him when whatever magic they’d been hexed with switches them back.

He crouches and gives Dick’s cheek a couple good smacks. His eyes crinkle the slightest bit, not opening, but a Bat always awakens slowly so they don’t alert any would-be captors. It’s trained into them well. Yeah—it’s Dick, all right.

“It’s me, Goldie,” Jason says, because he figures Dick won’t recognize his own voice, especially with the Bowery accent coloring his words. It does the trick. Dick opens his (well, Jason’s) eyes and stares up at him.

Three things happen in quick succession: First, Dick furrows his brows, clearly trying to digest the effects of seeing himself from an outside perspective; next, he pushes himself to his elbows to survey the room they’re in; finally, after what is surely a mental grapple with the possibility he has gone insane, he says, very aptly, “This isn’t right.”

“No fuckin’ shit,” Jason returns. “Move over Elongated Man, Dick Grayson’s coming for your number-one detective title.”

Dick doesn’t laugh or even smile at the deliberate mockery of Batman’s skills. “Our fight with Circe,” he says, sounding dismayed, “clearly didn’t end very well. On the bright side, her spells do tend to wear off on their own, so I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with this. I mean, I _hope_ not.”

Jason forgot all about Circe, but in light of Dick’s assertion, their botched mission shunts its way back into his short-term memory.

“So, what do we do until this extra-fun spell decides it’s gonna put us back in the correct bodies?”

Annoyed, Dick snaps, “I don’t _know,_ Jason. Just stay out of trouble, okay? The last thing I need is for Nightwing to be pulling ridiculous stunts—” Everything after that turns to radio static as Jason fixates on the phrase “just stay out of trouble” and resolutely begins imagining what would be the most gratifying trouble to get into while he has the chance.

He is _definitely_ going to flirt around.

Jason doesn’t consider himself attractive, is the thing. He’s average at best, but Dick? He has his face in the dictionary under the word. And as long as Jason’s piloting the prettiest thing this side of Gotham, he plans on using it to his advantage. He’s always wondered what it would be like to be the type of good-looking where strangers bluster at your flirtations, give you gifts, or pamper you with affection.

Dick is looking at him now, expecting some sort of response. Jason, lost in his daydreams, flaps a hand at him and mumbles, “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Be a good boy and don’t fuck up your reputation.”

_Oh, man,_ he thinks. _This is gonna be hilarious._

They trade their usual sectors of the city so no one in the family will ask questions. The last thing they need is Bruce breathing down their necks about whose neck is whose, asking why they weren’t more careful and then bestowing his frown of disappointment upon them after the fact. That means prowling Nightwing’s territory, full of half-finished buildings, streetlights, and other obnoxious vantage points on which he is forced to balance just to see anything on the streets below.

Down at the docks, where the air is foggy and fish-scented, he begins his rounds on top of a large stack of crates. Behind him, there’s a storage building full of discarded fishing equipment, and in front, a bustling crew about to load a freighter. He’d checked the dossier, and since they’re not scheduled by anyone whose reputation merits looking into, he doesn’t bother staking them out for more than a few minutes. Talk about boring.

What’s decidedly not boring is the near-heart-attack he has when a voice creeps up from behind him, somehow, despite his sweep of the area.

“You’re unusually punctual, Nightwing.”

Without his hood, his surprise is exposed to the waiting face of Slade Wilson, who stands on the ground beneath him with his arms crossed over his chest. “You must be eager for it tonight.”

Jason assumes Slade is talking about a fight, but the way he puts inflection on the word _eager_ sends a thrill up his spine. Bingo.

“I’m eager, all right,” he replies, mindful to suppress his accent. “Eager to put you in your place.”

He hops down from the crates, obscuring himself from the crew on the shore. As long as no one needs a torn fishing net or rusty harpoon any time soon, they will be free of prying eyes.

“You’re a riot, kid,” Slade says, immediately before slamming him back against the crates and slotting a knee in between Jason’s, which answers all his burning questions about his and Dick’s relationship in one fell swoop. The bastard doesn’t so much _kiss_ as he does _devour,_ which is a word Jason never thought he’d use when it came to stuff like this. Sure, Roman’s rough with him, but they don’t kiss much, namely on account of Roman not having a face.

Slade’s hands dig hard into his hips as he pulls him forward, beveling Jason’s hips against the solid mass of Slade’s thigh. It’s incredible for one thing, and Jason doesn’t even get the chance to react beyond a needy, embarrassing moan the second Slade transfers from his mouth to his jaw, beard scraping the skin raw as he aggressively marks him up without hesitation. God damn his bodily surrender to shit like this.

Slade laughs, as low and dangerous a sound as anything else out of the man’s mouth. “Did you put on what I gave you?”

By force of habit, Jason opens his mouth for a “yes, sir,” and then freezes when he realizes he forgot Roman put that stupid vibrator in him before he body-hopped. Oh, shit. Looks like Dick’s in for a rough night.

Jason closes his eyes. “Oh, my god,” he groans, which, luckily, Slade takes as a response to his hands suddenly being down Jason’s pants instead of humiliated despair. (When had he undone the catches on this uniform, anyway? How often did he and Dick do this kind of thing?)

Slade’s got the bottom half of the Nightwing uniform down to his knees before Jason cracks. The only thing left to cover Dick’s modesty is a much-too-small pair of green underwear, clearly reminiscent of the original Robin uniform. Jason’s less embarrassed for himself now.

He can’t help it: He laughs, wrapping his hands around Slade’s shoulders to support his weight as he curls in on himself from the force. “Jesus. I always knew you were a creep.” His accent slips back into his words full-force, but he just can’t maintain the facade any longer. “I’m surprised bird-brain agreed to this. Actually, you know what? I take it back. I bet it was his idea in the first place. It was, wasn’t it?”

Slade takes half a step backward, and Jason watches his face go from suggestive to confused to angry with hardly any major changes between them. It’s the subtle twitches of his brows and his mouth that give him away. Well, and the snap of his voice when he consolidates the sense of humor with the familiar tone and goes, “Hood?”

“Surprise?” Jason tries for a smile, but Slade’s face remains angry.

“You’re going to tell me what’s going on, and, for your sake, I’d better like the answer.” Slade throws—literally _throws—_ Jason up against the wall of crates and holds him there by his ribs, dangling a healthy few inches from the ground.

Jason, betrayed not only by his own libido but by Dick’s equally traitorous physicality, jerks his hips forward instead of fighting back. Slade blinks at him, expression smoothing into something thoughtful the longer he considers Jason’s lack of struggle and shallow breathing.

Jason licks his lips. “What’s going on is an incredibly ill-timed boner.” Slade’s gaze flicks down for a split-second to confirm. “Oh, and a lost battle with a sorceress who switched mine and Golden Boy’s consciousnesses.”

Slade lets him down and Jason’s legs definitely, certifiably, one-hundred percent do not wobble.

“And you were going to let me fuck you.” It isn’t a question. At least Slade sounds level now, and not like he was five seconds away from emasculating Jason with that nice, shiny dagger on his hip. Dick probably wouldn’t have forgiven him for that.

“I mean, I…” Jason hopes he isn’t as red in the face as he feels. “I was going to say something before it got, y’know, _that_ far. In my defense, I didn’t expect you to put your tongue down my throat the second you got here.”

“As if you didn’t moan like a bitch at one little kiss.” Slade’s kind of got him there, but it doesn’t make Jason feel any less affronted.

“As if _you_ would’ve had the balls to fuck the Red Hood.”

Slade snorts. “You strike me as the type to take two minutes of cock and then come before anyone gets to have any real fun.”

Jason is _not_ that type and, boy, does he want to prove it. His grin is conspiratorial, sharp and wicked. “Why don’t you try it, then? Unless you’re afraid of hurting Nightwing’s feelings. Does it count as being a home-wrecker if it’s in his body?”

Slade approaches again, boxing Jason in, staring him down with a countenance as mean and threatening as Jason tends to like them. “He’s not my girlfriend, kid. We just fuck.”

Somehow, that’s the funniest thing Slade’s ever said to him. Jason doesn’t get the chance to laugh at it, though, before everything around him spins and he finds himself forced to the dirt, face down, one arm wrenched behind his back.

“Since you came all this way just to get it, I’m more than happy to give it to you.” Slade unzips but doesn’t push his pants out of the way; Jason still feels the zipper’s metal teeth cutting into his skin while he’s being rutted against, and he knows from experience that there are gonna be bruises from hell all over him later.

Oops. Sorry, Dickie.

In this position, the stupid underwear can barely be pulled over the swell of his ass without threads popping, and once Jason pushes down the faint simmer of jealousy, he can indulge in the pain of a large palm swatting him right on the exposed skin. Hard, too, like Slade intends for Dick to loathe sitting for the next week.

Jason moans.

“Bats,” Slade says, like he’s cracked some sort of code. “All cut from the same cloth.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” Jason snarls, partially because he’s not sure when this spell is going to wear off, and partially because the sentiment is hopelessly embarrassing. The less he (lucidly) imagines what his predecessor’s sex life is like, the better he’ll be able to stave off his orgasm.

“Someone’s touchy,” Slade continues, regardless. He curls his fingers into the tight space between Jason’s underwear and his ass and pulls the fabric aside just enough to prod his cock against Jason’s hole. “All I did was suggest how badly you both like to be put in your place.”

Jason’s next swallow feels akin to gulping down a ping pong ball. When he doesn’t respond, Slade shoves a finger into him dry, all the way to the first knuckle, and Jason jerks so hard he can’t begin to halt the whine that spills from between his teeth. Slade whistles like he’s impressed, and Jason hates himself for secretly hoping he is.

“Attaboy. Tell me what you want.”

What Jason wants is for Slade to stop asking him what he wants. His station during sex tends to be letting Roman use him however he pleases, so the minor but present switch in consideration makes Jason a little dizzy. Pitifully, he does manage to eke out, “Already told you…want you to give it to me.”

“I’ll be doing that, rest assured. I want you to admit you like hearing about the things I do to _him_ as much as you like me doing them to _you._ ”

Jason eloquently replies, “ _Fuuuck,_ ” and tilts his hips up to meet the teasing curl of Slade’s finger, soon two of them, dry and splitting and perfect.For the better half of a minute, he forgets he was even requested to do something, at least until a hand cracks down on his ass again, dragging a high-pitched yelp out of him that’s immediately followed by an earnest, “Yes, sir! I like it, sir.”

Slade whistles again, lower and longer this time. He removes his fingers and Jason catches himself thinking he’s said the wrong thing before he remembers this isn’t Roman, this isn’t a punishment. The idea of being rewarded sends a bone-deep thrill through him like a trained dog, and he can’t even make himself feel embarrassed.

He waits, listening to Slade rustle around until he hears the click of a lid. Jason’s mind supplies him with the knowledge that it’s lubricant, which, despite the change in sexual partner, somehow still surprises him.

After Slade slicks up, he rubs his full length between Jason’s cheeks and—he’s a lot bigger than Roman, that’s for sure, so maybe the lube is a necessary precaution after all. He doesn’t get the chance to marvel at it any more before Slade shoves inside him in one push, knocking the air out of him. Precautions or not, he’s still not especially considerate.Yet, Jason remains stunned by how stretched and full he is. Dick’s a lucky son of a bitch.

He opens his mouth to say something snarky, but it gets beaten out by his startled cry when Slade pulls out and slams back in like it’s one fluid motion, and then just keeps battering Jason’s ass like he’s trying to get him to scream bloody murder in the middle of the damn docks.

Every syllable he speaks comes rattled out of him, disarming the rest of his bravado and turning him red all the way up to his ears. “Holy shit,” he pants, face nearly in the dirt each time he’s rocked forward. “You fucking prick.”

“You like it, don’t you,” Slade leans over, easily eclipsing the new body Jason’s manning, and whispers sinfully, “Nightwing?”

Jason grits his teeth but moans through them anyway, tightness already settling in his gut. Every thrust feels like sizzling electricity, especially since Slade is constantly nudging his prostate by sheer merit of size. It’s certainly not his only perk, because he puts his full weight behind every movement and then gets one huge hand around the back of Jason’s neck, and if his face wasn’t in the dirt before, it is now.

He feels particles of sand and debris rub painfully into his cheek, but he still pants, open-mouthed, on every downswing of Slade’s body rocking behind him. “Ye-e-es,” he answers, drawn out and needy.

“I gotta admit, you’re doing better than I thought you would, Jason.” Slade’s mouth is close to his ear now, voice grating and dark. Jason’s gasp is startled out of him at the sound of his own name, and the realization that Slade’s not fucking him just because he’s in Dick’s body. It’s nice. Jason would even say it was sweet, but his scale of sweetness may be skewed, so he nips that thought in the bud and focuses on arching his back as much as he can with Slade’s weight pinning him. It must work, because Slade hisses and then growls, and the hand on his neck tightens. Bruise city, here he comes.

“I’m—” he wheezes with what little breath he can pull, “flattered.”

“You take it so easily. Much more obediently than he does,” Slade says like it’s a compliment, and, god help him, Jason accepts it as one.

Of course Dick is a brat in bed. Go figure. Jason wants to think it’s funny, but the haze of such rough sex really only makes the image of Dick getting the sass fucked right out of him unfairly appealing.

He makes an urgent _mmm_ sound from behind pursed lips and squeezes his eyes closed at the sudden uptick in hormones. In response, Slade finally lets go of his arm, but Jason doesn’t do much with his hands other than claw at the dirt, anyway. It belatedly occurs to him that Slade probably expected him to touch himself, but Jason doesn’t even need to before he’s coming with a wail that only makes it partway out before Slade grabs his mouth and presses so hard it makes him dizzy.

His eyes roll back into his skull, and even though there’s a chance sailors and cargo-men are skittering all over the shore to find the source of the noise, he can’t think of anything but the sharp crests of pleasure as Slade fucks him through orgasm.

He comes down slowly, nostrils flaring in his attempt to get air, but Slade doesn’t let him go until the striking over-stimulation fades into pleasant fire between his legs the longer he’s used. No one’s found them yet, and Slade doesn’t seem worried, judging by the pampered orgasm he gives himself from downright abusing Jason’s hole, so he allows himself to relax until Slade’s done, when he sucks in a breath through clenched teeth and grinds against Jason’s ass until it smarts with soreness.

Finally, he’s released, hitting the ground with his elbows and a shuddering mouthful of air. It’s still unfortunately harbor-scented, and Jason actually finds himself grateful for Slade nearly smothering him. There are very few things less sexy than fishy ozone.

He sighs, rubs his throat, and winces his way into a standing position. By the time he bothers to pull his underwear back into place, he has already leaked a frankly frightening amount of cum down his leg. He hopes, as he pulls his pants up and secures all the proper latches, that Dick’s dry-cleaning service isn’t the kind that asks questions.

“Well,” he says, breaking the silence only because Slade’s creepy stare is preventing him from leaving, “if you’re ever on my side of the city, be sure to give me a call, eh?” It’s halfway a joke, but a smirk cuts across Slade’s face and Jason doesn’t necessarily mind the prickle of heat flushing across his own.

“Any future meeting will be contingent on you not playing _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ with me.”

“Duly noted. I’ll think about it.”

“And, whenever you run into the real Nightwing again…”

“Give him kudos for wearing these horrible panties for you?”

Slade snorts. “Brag to him as much as possible. I do enjoy him angry.”

With tremendous effort, Jason restrains his scoff. “I bet. I’m sure he’ll be mad. I can only imagine the sort of shit he’s gotten himself into trying to gracefully swing my body across Gotham.”

Jason won’t mind a few fresh bruises. As he idly prods his dirt-scraped cheek, he cringes and hopes for his own sake that Dick doesn’t mind, either.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally supposed to have two chapters, with the second part being for DickRoman, but I ran out of steam. :/ Pour one out for my inspiration jfkasbjkgbsgh.


End file.
